Tense Relationships
by Rosie eisoR
Summary: Ah, just written because I had trouble characterising Dom (and Kel). It's a one-shot fic that was my chance to play around with tenses, really.


I suppose some may call this deception. I call it stylistic opportunism. It means I can't write Kel romance. And I apologise for the pun in the title. If you get it, that is =P

--

He had known from the beginning that nothing between them would be serious. Fun, that's what they had called it. Fun.

And it had been fun. It had been fun when he had first asked her to dance at a Midwinter's ball. They had laughed and joked, and then she had told him she was going to be betrothed. But that hadn't mattered, things weren't going to be serious, what difference would a nameless, faceless future husband make?

So the fun had continued through flirtations, through letter writing and the occasional stolen kiss whenever he had visited the palace. Even being sent there to recuperate had been fun.

_"Oh, you poor boy.__ Is it painful?"_

_"Very. Will you kiss it better for me?"_

_"Where does it hurt?"_

_"Right here."___

_"You got yourself hurt on purpose, didn't you?"_

And then she had started to talk about marriage. It had begun with little hints in her letters – _The Maren Ambassador was at court today, and he began to discuss how fond he was of young Tortallan women. I hope Papa doesn't decide links with Maren would be a good idea – I should hate to have to marry somebody like that! _Then, they became less subtle – _I think I should like to wear blue to my wedding. Adie says Lady Uline is planning to wear white! Can you imagine? – _until the subject of marriage filled her entire letter, save for the hastily added _Missing you at Court – do you think you'll be able to come by soon?_

After his plan to get her onto more neutral topics failed, he resorted to crumpling her letters up and tossing them in the fire, regretting the action as soon as they turned to ashes. He knew why he felt like this, because it had become more than fun, because he wanted to be the one she was constantly thinking about, he wanted her to boast about marrying Domitan of Masbolle and not some nobleman she didn't even know.

His jealousy even caused him to stop writing for a while, though he continued to plague his cousin for news of upcoming betrothals, dreading yet hoping Mindelan would appear on the list of names. Neal would know immediately if there was a wedding planned.

It was no longer fun. It was no longer fun because he realised she had come to mean something past 'fun'.

He began a hundred letters to that effect, and tore a hundred up, because this was too important to tell her in writing. He had to wait until he could see her in person.

And his chance came. Raoul exited his tent with Sir Alanna in tow, and declared they would be returning to the palace at long last. Dom resisted the urge to punch the air in triumph, but he spent the rest of the day wearing a grin that stretched between his ears.

A grin that is now nowhere to be seen.

"Dom? Dom, say something," she urges.

Say something? Something to express the hollowness filling his insides? He would rather not; he would rather remain there, silent, staring at the palms of his hands.

"Dom, what's wrong? Look, I'm sorry I didn't tell you earlier, but – well, you weren't writing to me." She spreads her hands in a gesture of helplessness. Hands that he longs to take in his own, to kiss...

He swallows hard and turns his eyes away so she won't see them come to rest on her lips. So, it is his fault for not writing. He comes to sweep her away and finds her already swept. His jealousy of the non-existent married man prevented him from contacting her until the married man exists. The irony is painful.

He is going to tell her anyway.

"I couldn't write," he admits, feeling a sense of relief. He is going to do this; finally, at last, she will know that it means more than fun. "I couldn't cope with you talking about marriage all the time, marriage to somebody else."

She stares at him incredulously, her beautiful eyes round. He wishes she wouldn't, but he prefers this to her deliberately smooth features. He hates it when he can't read her, only, right now, he hates that he can read her. "Domitan, are you trying to tell me that _you_ wanted to marry me?"

He shakes his head, turning toward her. "I _want_ to marry you," he says, emphasising the present tense. "Please, don't marry Tasride."

"_Don't_ marry Tasride?" Her eyebrows are arched, she is clearly not impressed. "Why shouldn't I?"

She is going to make him say it; he can read the challenge in her brown eyes. He wets his lips nervously. "Because I want to marry you," he repeats. "Because I don't think I can stand it if you marry somebody else, I can't stop _thinking_ about you."

"Yes, yes, I understand," she interrupts, looking irritated for some reason. "You think I'm beautiful, and I'm the only one you could ever love because you've never felt this way before, and sometimes you can't even speak to other people because they're not me."

_She understands._ Dom breathes out a sigh of relief and reaches a tremulous hand to her.

She pulls away. "Infatuation, Dom, you feel exactly how I used to."

He freezes, hand still stretched out to her. "What?"

She laughs harshly, not looking at him, looking down the path, at the couple who have stolen away among the rosebushes, ironically the plan he had in mind. "Adie told me you wouldn't know."

There is a silence. She gets up to leave, looking impatient, but he catches her wrist. The practicality of this is killing him. "You _love _me?" he croaks.

She half-shrugs.

"Why didn't you tell me?"

She scoffs. "It wasn't that easy. I didn't know how you felt, I wasn't going to – to what, express myself on paper if I thought you'd laugh over it with your friends."

He ignores her statement. "But still, a hint, something-"

Her lip curls in distaste. At first he thinks it is because she is ashamed of not having thought of that, but then he realises it is for him. "I sent them. Hints about marriage, hoping they'd prompt you into declaring your undying love. And then you wrote back with things about the Own, and I thought you were warning me off, telling me that you don't want to leave the Own for me. And then you stopped writing."

He ignores this with rather more difficulty. "But we can put this-"

For the first time since he started to speak, her face softens, and she leans forward and presses her lips to his forehead. There is love in the movement, but no passion, only compassion. He closes his eyes tightly, knowing this is it.

"Goodbye, Oranie."

"Goodbye, Dom."

He watches her walk away, feeling strangely secure, although he knows his heart should be breaking.

As time goes on, he will think of her more and more, as her sister comes to be Raoul's squire. At first, he will be nice to Keladry because otherwise Neal would kill him, and because some part of him will still hope – in vain – that Orie will hear of it, and smile, and remember him. Then, well, he will be nice to her for the pleasure of making _her_ smile, and because they become friends, and he will forget about her sister.

And then, who knows?


End file.
